“I am,” Mrs. Townshend answered, nodding her head.
“I suppose you sing opera?”
“I suppose I do, Will. But I believe my hosts would prefer songs of the season, and folksongs, so that others might join in. I do not believe that great tragical arias would do for Christmas.” She met his eyes, and he thought she might be teasing him. “In any case, we seem to have averted a great tragedy last night, so perhaps I will be asked to sing of heroes and salvation.”
“It is Christmas, after all,” he said.
“But that is not the sort of salvation I meant,” she whispered.
He found himself leaning closer, tempted to understand precisely what she meant, but caught himself before he did anything he might regret. She did not seem to remember the kisses they had shared in the coach. Pulling himself up, he pushed back his chair.
“Well then, let us be on our way, Mrs. Townshend. The sun is shining and the snow has stopped and we may make excellent progress on our journey. I doubt if anyone would miss an old bachelor at a Christmas party, but I cannot deprive our hosts of your talents.” He thought he sounded a bit too cheerful. “Do you require any assistance?”
“Would I delay us too long if I request a bath be brought up? My hair feels as if it was used as a broom to brush away gravel, and I assume the rest of me is no better.” A blush passed over her pale skin when she realized what she said.
He thought she looked beautiful, with some of the earthiness characteristic of the women of the East Indies. But then again, they were to be confined in a rather intimate space for at least another few days, and he understood her concerns.
“I will ask the innkeeper to send up one of the servants, and to bring you anything you require.”
“I have my own coin,” she said, glancing to where her garments were draped by the fire. “I must insist on paying my own way.”
She was right, of course, but he had no desire to explain to their innkeeper why a man and a woman sharing a room should be billed separately.
“Allow me to assume your expenses while we are on the road, and we can settle it up once we arrive at Seabury.”
“That is very kind of you, Will. Or shall I call you Lord Willem? I recall that is what you said.”
He rather liked hearing his name on her lips; indeed, it sounded like notes of music. But now he would be delivering her to Seabury, and some illusions must be preserved. “As we are to be guests in the same household, I suspect Lord Willem would be best. And am I to call you Mrs. Townshend?”
She hesitated just a moment too long, just enough time for him to wonder if that was her real name.
“Yes. That would be just fine,” she said.
AS JULIA WASHED herself in the deep copper basin that had been brought by a disgruntled maid into her bedchamber, she wondered if she had made a grave error. Lord Willem Wakefield had already vacated the room, without taking advantage of their highly improper situation. He certainly behaved like a gentlemen, but then, so did many other men, grifters and deceivers, all. He might have found her papers in the wreck or she might have murmured something in her sleep, and thus he knew Seabury was her destination. That it was also his destination was too incredulous to believe, even in this season of miracles.
It certainly was no miracle if it was his intention to apprehend her coach on the road, or kidnap her, or hold her for ransom until her relatives paid him a handsome sum. He could not know that Lord and Lady Howard were not even her relatives, as the lady was no more than her sister-in-law, the sister of Julia’s late husband. But Laurentia was a friend, and worried for Julia’s welfare. It was not either of their fault that dear Leighton hit his forehead on a low-hanging beech branch when he rode out one morning. Now both women were left with an unrelenting sense of grief and guilt that such a tragedy had happened. Could Laurentia not have detained him at the breakfast table that morning? Should Julia have held him longer in her bed?
The bond between the two women who loved Leighton was no one’s business but their own. And thus Lord Willem Wakefield was a fool if he imagined Geoffrey Howard would pay him off to secure her release. She would tell him so herself, if it came to it.
Julia rubbed the soap a bit too vigorously over her skin, as if by doing so, she could wash away her returning memories of the crash and her fears that she would freeze to death and her more immediate concerns about her rescuers. But where her skin was already rubbed raw, the rough soap burned, and she wished she had some small bar of her favorite lilac soap tucked into a pocket of her purse. She imagined it would restore her in every way, and give her strength for the next part of her journey, no matter what happened.
She must retain her wits about her; that much was certain. Lord Willem Wakefield now thought she was simple Mrs. Townshend, who was invited to Seabury to sing for the guests of the Howards. He could not know she was a widow with some means, who had the freedom to go about her business as she saw fit. Perhaps he even pitied her, imagining her a sad spinster who was included in the house party as a gesture of charity, with nothing else to do.
Julia dropped the harsh soap and watched it disappear to the bottom of the basin, hoping it was not capable of burning a hole right through the metal.
As she groped about for the slippery bit of fat and lye, she considered he might be more accurate than she cared to believe if he indeed envisioned her a sad spinster. Though a lady might have the ability to move about as she pleased, that did not mean that she did so. In fact, she had nothing else to do this Christmas season, nor anyone else to share it with.
The trail of her logic had grown as cold as the murky water. If Lord Willem Wakefield thought she was poor and unprotected, she was hardly a likely victim to be held for ransom. And if he had no practical use for her, why insist they travel together to Seabury? He might as well just abandon her here, and let her fend for herself.
That he did not intend to do so suggested he was indeed a gentleman.
She stood, naked and wet, in the cool room and wished she had something more substantial to wrap herself in than the threadbare towel that had been brought to her along with the soap and lap basin. She felt the dissolving soap under one foot and held onto the edge of the tub as she pulled herself out. Water splashed on the knotted rug as she hurried to the bed, where she had laid out her clothing.
Actually, it was not her clothing, but Mimma’s. She supposed the maid Laurentia had sent for her was somewhere safe, dressed in green velvet and red ribbons, and perhaps passing herself off as Lady Leighton Kingswood. She could not help but wonder if this had been some dark plan laid out before they even left the dowager cottage back at Kingswood Hall.
The maid’s garments were clean and well-mended, and might even include some of Laurentia’s own castoffs. Julia and her sister-in-law were somewhat of the same build and proportions. The dresses were good enough for travel, and surely Julia would be able to borrow a few dresses once she arrived at Seabury.
Lacking a hairbrush, she combed her hair through with her fingers, and twisted some strands between her fingers. She remembered doing this with her mother’s help, when she was a child and her hair was allowed to cascade down her back in a thick flow of curls. One Christmas, when she was perhaps ten or eleven, they wove satin ribbon through her locks, setting her hair off her forehead and away from her ears, so everyone in church would notice her tiny pearl earrings.
Her hand caressed her earlobe and the delicate stone, as she recalled the joy of that distant Christmas. But by the following December, her mother was dead, along with the baby she carried, and Mr. Townshend no longer had any desire to celebrate the season. He died some years later, of what those who attempted to console Julia called a “broken heart.” And then there was Leighton, whose horse threw a shoe as he rode past her little garden, and thus opened the door into her house and heart. But soon, Leighton was gone as well.
She was startled by a bold knock on the door.
“Will you join us in the dining room, Mrs. Townshend?” called Will Wakefield, without turning the knob. “We must make haste if we are to arrive at the next posting inn by nightfall.”
“I am nearly ready, Mr. Wakefield. I must only pack my bag.”
And, indeed, that was all. With a last twist of a damp curl, and a glance at the stranger in the mirror, Julia pressed her damp garments into the carpetbag, and left what was possibly her last stronghold before arriving at—she prayed—Seabury in the village of Rye.
(Please continue reading for more information about the author)
About the Author
Since her first romance novel came out in 1984, Virginia Brown has written over 50 novels. Many of her books have been nominated for Romantic Times’s Reviewer’s Choice, Career Achievement Award for Love and Laughter, Career Achievement Award for Adventure, and 2 EPIC eBook nominations for Historical Romance. In addition she received the RT Career Achievement Award for Historical Adventure, as well as the EPIC eBook Award for Mainstream Fiction. Her works have regularly appeared on national bestseller lists.
A native of Memphis, Tennessee, Virginia spent much of her childhood traveling with her parents as a “military brat,” living all over the US and in Japan. This influenced her love of travel and adventure, which she indulges with research trips to England and Scotland as often as possible. While Ms. Brown spent her formative years in Jackson, Mississippi, she now lives near her children in North Mississippi, surrounded by a menagerie of beloved dogs and cats while she writes.
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